If I Were Built, I’d Quit My Job

If I were built, I’d quit my job. I’d have the courage to do that, if I were built. With muscles like mine, what would I be afraid of? I’d stride into my boss’s office, strip down to my underwear, and give my two-weeks’ notice. For most people, that’d be something from a nightmare—standing half-naked in front of your boss—but I’d feel completely at ease, if I were built.

If I were built, I’d always feel completely at ease. On first dates. At big meetings. In distant countries where I didn’t speak the language. In bed with a woman for the first time. At parties where I didn’t know anyone but the host. I’d excel at small talk, if I were built. “Nice party,” someone would say to me, for example, and I’d say to him, “Feel my abs.”

I’d host parties, if I were built. Dinner parties, for friends. I’d serve fondue. If I were built, I’d have an antique fondue set, and, if I were built, I’d know how to use it.

My last two weeks at the office would be uncomfortable for my coworkers. They’d all know I’d taken my clothes off in my boss’s office, but no one would say anything about it to me. No one would say anything to me; no one would even look at me as they passed me in my the cubicle area or in the kitchen. They wouldn’t look at a beautiful, built man like me! My boss would wish he could just fire me before the two weeks was up, but, if I were built, I’d have to tie up loose ends with important clients and draft memos for my successor. If I were built, I’d take pleasure in the near-certainty that my successor wouldn’t be as talented or built as I’d be, or as driven, intelligent, handsome, charming, or magnanimous. I’d be magnanimous, if I were built.

And I’d ask friends to invite their friends to my fondue parties, and when I shook their hands I’d see pain and confusion in their eyes. Pain, because my handshake would be unusually forceful, and confusion because they’d been imagining a softer body for the host of a fondue party. They wouldn’t have known that it was possible for a man to be both built and so refined. And, if I were built, I’d keep a fully stocked bar, and I’d serve my friends and friends of friends complicated drinks—apple-brandy Singapore Slings; Negronis made with orange-and-clove-infused gin; bacon, mushroom, and red onion Martinis; spicy-carrot margaritas. I’d laugh at jokes that weren’t funny and tell anecdotes about my time in the service and strongly imply I was a C.I.A. agent and a close friend of the Senate Majority Leader. If I were built, I’d know the name of the Senate Majority Leader, and I’d use it to my advantage in conversation.

I’d enjoy playing host at my fondue parties, but there would be a deeper purpose behind them, too. If I were built, I’d use fondue to find a woman. A woman to spend my life with, maybe. A woman to replace my first wife, Sarah. I’d ask my friends to invite their most attractive lady friends, and they’d come to my condo and drink locally sourced drinks and dip hunks of bread in melted cheese and their minds would turn to one thing: sex. All evening, they’d imagine my naked built body dripping with thick fondue cheese. And who would I be, if I were built, to deny a pretty woman her dream? If I were built, I’d have sticky hot fondue sex with friends of friends. And it would be great, and I’d really like some of them—but none of them would be Sarah. My Sarah.

If I were built, I’d win Sarah back. I’d wait for her in the parking garage of the building she worked in. At first she wouldn’t notice me, and then she wouldn’t recognize me. I’d approach her and she’d shriek, but I’d grab her arms. “Sarah,” I’d say, pulling her to my body, “it’s me. I made a mistake.” She’d smile, then cry, then put her hands on my chest. “Have you been working out?” she’d say, and soon we’d be married again.

And I’d know how to ride a bike, if I were built. And I’d be kinder and more compassionate and better at Scrabble and card games. I’d like myself, if I were built. And I wouldn’t spend so much time on the internet. How could I, when I spent all that time at the gym?

If I were built, I’d quit my job and host parties and have cheese sex with beautiful women. I’d be married to a beautiful woman, Sarah, and this time I wouldn’t take her for granted. I’d feel her presence in everything I did and everything I thought, even when she wasn’t there. Everything would feel significant, if I were built. If I were built, the world would be full of meaning.